Edwy the Fair or the First Chronicle of Aescendune eBook

But one seat was vacant near the king’s throne,
and every now and then Edwy seemed to cast a wistful
eye upon it, as if he would fain see its ordinary
occupant there.

The gleemen rose and sang, the harpers harped, but
something was wanting; they brought tears to the eyes
of the fair queen by their plaintive songs of hapless
lovers, which had superseded alike the war songs of
Athelstane and the monkish odes of Edred.

“Where is Elfric? He promised to be back
by our wedding day; why does he delay, my Edwy?”
asked Elgiva.

“It is little less than treason to the queen
of youth and beauty to be thus absent, my Elgiva,
but remember he has been unwell, and Redwald told
me that for prudential reasons they delayed his return
to court.”

“And your brother Edgar—­”

“Is somewhere in Mercia: the churlish boy
has declined our invitation to honour our feast with
his presence. We do not want his serious face
at the board. I am sure he would preach on the
duty of fasting.”

“He has but seldom been our visitor.”

“No; he is afraid, perhaps, to trust his cold
heart within the magic of my Elgiva’s sunshine,
lest the ice should be melted.”

These had been asides, while all the company were
listening to the gleeman; but now Edwy threw himself
heart and soul into the current conversation, and
all went merry as a marriage peal, until the ceremoniarius—­for
Edwy loved formality in some things—­threw
open the folding doors and announced the captain of
the hus-carles, and Elfric of Aescendune.

The whole company rose to receive them, and Elfric
in particular received a warm welcome; but it was
at once seen that there was a marked constraint upon
him: his eye was restless and uneasy, and he seemed
like one carrying a load at his breast.

In truth, since that fatal night when, as he believed,
he had witnessed the death of his brother, he had
striven in vain to drown care and to banish remorse:
the thought of his aged father deprived of both his
sons —­the one by death, the other by desertion—­would
force its way unbidden to his mind. Still, he
had determined to throw aside reserve in honour of
the occasion, and he made heroic efforts to appear
happy and gay.

Redwald was at his ease, as usual in all company,
and seemed to cause prodigious laughter as he told
his adventures to the younger folk at the bottom of
the board. Dark and malign as his demeanour usually
was, yet he could affect a light and airy character
at times.

“Redwald, my trusty champion,” said Edwy,
“this is the first campaign thou hast ever returned
from unsuccessful. Tell us, how did Dunstan outwit
you?”

“By the aid of the devil, my liege.”

“Doubtless; but we had all hoped for a different
result, and that thou wouldst either have left the
traitor no eyes in his head, or no head on his shoulders.